


Teach me to braid my hair

by VillainousVivs



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Family Drama, Fëanor gets slapped thrice, Gen, Nerdanel is a godsend, a hint of unintentional child neglect if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24692224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillainousVivs/pseuds/VillainousVivs
Summary: For all his flawless memory, Fëanor couldn’t remember who threw the first punch, only that it was followed by more.
Relationships: Finwë/Indis (Tolkien), Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63





	Teach me to braid my hair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Drag0nst0rm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/gifts).



The silence was so deafening that Maglor shivered. Maedhros, who recently regained the ability to co-exist with more than one family member at a time, visibly vibrated with anxiety.

“Fëanor,” said Indis, who sat at the head of the table, adorned by an icy crown.

Fëanor said nothing.

Caranthir fidgeted with his fork. Celegorm looked like the embodiment of regret themself, whom Maglor knew was an actual Maia of Nienna. Curufin ignored it, mostly, and became fascinated with a very peculiar piece of venison. Turgon joined Caranthir in his fidgeting of forks. Fingon discreetly placed his face into his hands.

Fëanor opened his mouth--

\--the room braced for impact--

\--and he turned, and left.

“Well,” said Findis. “That could’ve been worse.”

Seeing how the crowd deflated with relief, Maglor was inclined to agree.

* * *

Fëanor had a very, very good memory. Which was a blessing, since he didn’t have to write down every one of his ephemeral thoughts or shapeless musings. If he drifted from one idea to another, or one language to the next, he could always recall his train of thoughts as easily as he first thought them. It gave him speed in the field of invention, and vindictiveness in the throes of debate. It was, he decided, a boon.

Fëanor had a very, very good memory. Which was a shame, because he remembered him asking for the first time whether he had a mother.

Finwë had tried to smile. “Of course, ‘náro. She’s just sleeping with Lady Estë.”

Too young to yet be schooled, he asked, “Who’s Estë?”

But Finwë had already turned away, carried forth by the machinations of government and duty. Fëanáro didn’t mind. Atar was busy, because atar was king and had to help everybody. But everybody loved atar, and made atar happy, so it was fine.

Fëanáro would wait for when atar had time. He would wait forever and ever if it made atar happy. He would even eat his vegetables without complaint.

(Well, with less complaint.)

That night, when Fëanáro had snuck into his father’s chambers, Finwë was crying. Fëanáro was furious; who had upset his atar? Who _dared_ to upset his atar? He was the king! His people loved him! If they upset his atar, the people would fury-furri-furi-very angry with them! And Fëanáro would be there to yell at them, because that’s what atar did to people who were “rude”, and that would be that.

He told Finwë so. Finwë had laughed. “Nobody upset me,” he reassured him in a very not-assuring way.

Then atar sang him a lullaby and urged him to sleep. Fëanáro protested until he saw it was really atar who needed to sleep, then decided to lead by example.

* * *

Fëanáro thought Míriel was the most beautiful amal in the world, and Finwë agreed. Or he would, anyways, if he had the time to come.

“She was kind,” his minder told him. He nodded, not yet understanding the word besides that it was “good”.

“When she wakes up, would she weave flowers in my hair?”

His minder gave him a not-smile, one that reminded Fëanáro of his atar. “Yes, she would.”

* * *

  
Fëanáro was good at making things, better at making things up, and best at making sure his atar was happy.

Or second best, now, with Indis beating him by just a midget. Atar smiled more, when she came. He even laughed, once, when Indis made a teasing comment on one of his inventions, though he was sure that his invention was still the leading factor.

(There were whispers, too, in the halls. “He looks happy,” one servant would say to the other. “He hasn’t been this happy since… well. You know.”

He pretended not to hear them. Indis was just a friend, and an emissary from Ingwë, another king with his own people. Even if atar liked her a little, she wouldn’t stay apart from her people, would she?

Not that atar liked her for anything except a friend, of course. She was just very good at making atar happy, and Fëanáro was glad--not angry, not spurned, not _jealous_ \--to have help in the matter.

Surely, she’ll be gone soon.)

* * *

Fëanáro didn’t attend the wedding. Or the wedding feast. Or any other public appearance that included her, which was all of them.

“I’m sorry,” said Finwë, looking more distraught than he had since meeting Indis.

Fëanáro shook his head. It wasn’t atar’s fault that amal had gone to Mandos, or that Fëanáro couldn’t make him happy enough meanwhile. It wasn’t his fault that he was lonely.

“We have a surprise, if you would come out,” coaxed Finwë, sounding desperate.

Fëanáro ignored the “we” and went. He hoped it was a divorce. He’d already added the word into the dictionary, and was working through the ceremonies, and un-swearing of vows. He would even make Indis something nice, if she would leave them alone.

As it turned out, she was pregnant.

“You’re going to have a sibling!” declared Finwë.

Fëanáro stared at Indis with what he felt was murderous rage.

“Why won’t you leave us alone?” he said, ignoring the outcries that rang. Or was that just his voice?

“Fëanáro,” said Indis. “I’m sorr-”

“I invented divorce. It’s how people dissolve marriages. I can show you my drafts if you come with me,” he said, already standing up. “If you want, you can write a prenup. I’ll give you everything I have.”

She looked dumbstruck. Fëanáro hoped it meant she agreed.

“You want me gone that badly?” she breathed, sounding a little like atar when he asked about amal.

He did the math in his head. She wouldn’t be able to have any significant amount of the imperial treasury, of course, though he hoped he could satisfy her with his not-inconsiderable personal wealth. Being the most talented smith and linguist of Aman had its perks. “Yes.”

“Fëanáro,” said Finwë, in a tone he didn’t recognize. “Apologize!”

He whipped his head around and saw that atar was angry. “Why?”

And then something made a loud _clap_ sound in the room. It took Fëanáro an embarrassing amount of time to realize that it was his face, which had collided with Finwë’s palm.

Atar looked terrified. “I’m sorry, ‘náro, I’m sorry, please, just listen--sit, would you? Yes, sit… oh, Eru, what have I… ‘náro? ‘Náro?”

Fëanáro only heard him because atar hated rude people and not listening when you’re spoken to is rude. He didn’t answer, though, because he was still sorting out what this meant.

He had been giving Indis a brilliant new option: divorce. Yes, well, maybe wealth wasn’t as enticing as being the Queen of the Ñoldor, but he would give her all his best work, too, if she would leave, and that must amount to _something_. And Indis didn’t say no. In fact, she looked mostly sad, not angry, like atar.

Why, he wondered, was atar angry?

(Finwë was saying something about controversy, Ingwë not being altogether happy about their marriage, the Valar giving slivers of doubt, and how much pressure Indis’d been under since the conception. These things were related, though Fëanáro wasn’t sure how)

It took him until the end of Finwë’s little speech to figure it out: atar loved Indis more than he loved him.

Because it wasn’t an argument until atar jumped in, to defend Indis.

(It still wasn’t an argument, not really, when there’s only one person talking frantically while the other two cried)

Because he was explaining how much they loved each other, but not how amal was gone and couldn’t teach him to braid his hair, and atar was so busy, and he hated the minders and he hated the other adolescents, because they didn’t understand him when spoke about his inventions, or didn’t like him when he was angry, which according to them was all-the-time, and the only one he really, really loved was atar.

Because when Indis asked him to take her back to their chambers, he went.

For a brief moment, Fëanáro considered being angry at atar.

And then he remembered that he didn’t have anyone else and decided to be angry at Indis instead.

* * *

  
He hadn’t known Findis was being born; he’d just overheard that Finwë was losing alarming amounts of sleep, and that it was totally understandable.

 _Indis_ , he thought, when the crowd of medics gathered in their bedroom. He dashed there with a knife he’d design to be hidden up his sleeve, and gaped when the bloody infant came to life.

Finwë had never looked so happy.

Fëanáro left.

* * *

He found himself tolerating Findis, over time. She was a wobbly, lumpy, often smelly sack of flesh, but she stayed quiet while he droned on with his theories about gravity, and kept Indis occupied, so he decided that she was alright.

Ñolofinwë was not.

When Findis went with her mother to study prose, Finwë played with Ñolo using toys Fëanáro had outgrown. He had smiled at the toddler with a smile that he recognized. And the babe--raven haired, giggling, not angry-all-the-time, not asking the wrong questions about his dead amal and making atar cry--had smiled back, with a smile he knew just as well as his own.

He had been replaced.

Finwë, of course, discredited that theory. “I love you,” he said, firmly, and held him just as tight.

And then Fëanáro would see him with Indis, Findis, and Ñolo, and understood that there was no more room for him.

* * *

He hadn’t met Arafinwë until he brought Nerdanel home.

“I didn’t realize the Vanyar were visiting,” he said to the elfling, who looked too curious--and too familiar--for his own good.

“I didn’t realize my older brother was courting,” he countered.

Fëanáro frowned. “Who are you, again?”

Arafinwë introduced himself. Fëanáro tried not to be surprised.

 _There was room_ , he thought. _Just not for me._

“Where’s atar?” he asked instead.

“With great-uncle Ingwë, and amil. They’re having tea.” Arafinwë paused, as if to weigh his options. “Would you like to come?”

Nerdanel said yes, though she wasn’t sure if Fëanáro was tired from the riding. (he wasn’t; she knew, and gave him the option anyway. If there wasn’t a bastard child in the vicinity he would kiss her)

“...sure,” he muttered, because he’d have to get this over with sooner or later, and he’d probably commit arson if it was later.

Nerdanel shot him a worried look. Arafinwë pretended not to notice, which brought notice to another quality he lacked: tact.

Arafinwë proved to have an abundance of it. From what he’d heard of Ñolo (and he’d heard rather a lot), it ran in the family. Indis’ family.

They were indeed having tea, and from a glance, Fëanáro could tell that atar was healthier and happier than he’d ever seen before. It broke away to shock as they realized who came.

“This is Nerdanel,” he said to the shellshocked room. “My partner.”

“It is good to meet you, my King,” she said, bowing. Remembering Ingwë, she added, “Kings.”

Finwë hugged him so hard he was crushed.

“‘Náro, ‘náro!” he cried. “Did you not receive my letters?”

“Yes,” he said, which wasn’t a lie; he did receive them. He just never opened them. “I was busy.”

From the way they all glared at him, he surmised that his truth was not believed.

Finwë didn’t press. “And with worthy cause, I see,” and he turned to Nerdanel. “You must be the daughter of Mahtan,” he concluded. “They say your sculptures are real enough to breathe.”

The conversation drifted safely away from his continued absence, and Fëanáro, warned by Nerdanel’s many glares, kept quiet.

Until Ñolofinwë arrived, that is.

 _He’s grown,_ thought Fëanáro, when he came in. Obvious in retrospect, but surreal upon inspection. Last time they’d seen each other, Ñolo fit snugly in the crook of his arm, and dozed half the time he was held. He had been cute (he’d only admitted it once, when he was drunk, and only with Nerdanel. She laughed and said it was normal. “You’re family,” she told him. “Of course you’re meant to find him cute. _I_ find him cute, and I’m not even family yet!”), then. Now, adorned with a silver helm and silver hems, he was princely.

He was also glaring at him with the same murderous rage he once gave to Indis.

“HOW DARE YOU,” he spat, pointing a finger at him with such vehemence he twitched towards his hidden knife. “HOW DARE YOU SHOW YOUR FACE BACK HERE?!”

Fëanáro had stood without noticing. “What,” he replied dangerously, “do you mean by that?”

“Do you know how much atar loves you? How much he misses you? How many times he thought he’d lost you, and cry into the night?” he shouted accusingly across the room. “Do you know how he waits sleeplessly for your replies? How he skips meals when he hears you’d undertook some strange, deathly experiment, only to crumple in relief that you’d lived after all? How he stares longingly into the horizon, wishing that you’d appear-”

“ _Ñolofinwë_ ,” Indis said, coming between them. “That is _enough_.”

Ingwë coughed. Finwë was trembling. Arafinwë looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

“Maybe I would’ve stayed,” he spat back, before Nerdanel could knock him unconscious, “IF YOU WEREN’T HERE!”

For all his flawless memory, Fëanor couldn’t remember who threw the first punch, only that it was followed by more.

The brawl lasted long enough for half the guards to gather while the other half held them apart. Ingwë had led Arafinwë out of the room, and Indis was humming softly to their--shaking, heaving, sobbing, _weeping!_ \--father.

Nerdanel slapped him. And then she berated him until all his wounds were treated, and slipped poppy tincture into his drink.

“Apologise to your brother,” she’d told him the next day. “And visit your father more.”

They got married the next year. Indis was not invited.

* * *

They didn’t brawl this time, or spit insults at each other, though it was evident that they tried.

“I wish Nerdanel was here,” said Fingolfin, worn from all his efforts to speak above a whisper. “She would knock some sense into you.”

Fëanor, for once, did not contradict. “Whereas Anairë is your enabler.”

Insults against his person and his mother were expected, but Anairë? “She’s my _moral support_. Unlike you and your untamed hubris, some of us actually _have_ insecurities.”

Not that he wanted to admit that out loud. It just slipped, like the rest of his calm façade, whenever Fëanor was involved. He winced.

“Fingolfin,” said Fëanor, quietly, “what’s it like to have a mother?”

If Fingolfin could sputter, he would.

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” he demanded, alarmed. Certainly Morgoth couldn’t simulate the Halls of Mandos. Certainly. Probably. Maybe?

Maybe.

Fëanor only gave a sad chuckle. “Last I checked, he’s busy ruling the Ñoldor in Valinor. Or would that be Indis? Would they like a Vanya Queen ruling? Then again, Finarfin’s half Vanyar himself, and married a Teleri, so they haven’t got much of a choice.”

And then Fëanor looked at him, and Fingolfin knew it wasn’t a dream.

And he was expecting an answer.

“It’s nice,” he told him, uncertainly. “To have a mother.”

A pause. Then silence, one of which neither of them wanted to break.

Fëanor broke it anyhow. “Did she teach you how to braid your hair?” he asked, softly.

“No. That had been father.”

His brother pursed his lips unhappily. “He never taught me.”

“Surely he has,” he protested.

He shook his head. “He hadn’t the time.”

That, Fingolfin could believe. “How did you learn, then?”

“Nerdanel,” he said, and they went back on topic.

* * *

It hadn’t been pity that freed the Fëanorians from Mandos; it had been exasperation, coupled with complaints from the unfortunate Maiar whose task was to watch over them.

“We did it,” gasped Fingon, who’d landed on his feet.

“Hello, Nerdanel,” said Fëanor, who’d landed on his face.

She slapped him and went to embrace their sons.

* * *

Finarfin explained that yes, he’d been technically king since the rest of them fucked off to Middle Earth, but Indis did most of the ruling, so he abdicated to her once he came back from saving their asses.

“Amil knew what she was doing, anyway, since she’d already done it for so long.” He shrugged. “And people hadn’t much cared who was Vanyar and who was Teleri when their own families left them to fight a war.”

The silence in the air rang with guilt and righteous accusation. Fëanor swallowed his wine and changed the topic.

“How about,” he said, “we have a family dinner?”

* * *

Indis found Fëanor waiting for her on the balcony with a piece of paper and an angry pout.

“Fëanor,” she said, cautious.

“Indis,” he said, rigidly. “I… wanted to… ap… apologize.”

Indis raised an eyebrow, but did not interrupt.

“For…” He stared at the paper so hard she thought it would catch fire. A moment later, it did. “...everything,” he finished.

She had been hoping for more, to say the very, very least, though that could always come later. Also, more importantly, she now owed her extended family members a considerable amount of money. “I forgive you.”

The look on his face was worth it.

* * *

The next family dinner went better; until Fingon opened his mouth to speak, that is.

“Uncle Fëanor,” he said innocently, “you wouldn’t happen to have apologized to grandma Indis, now would you?”

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
